


When Marty met Ozzy

by zorotokon



Category: Pack Street - Fandom, Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Friendship Origin Story, Gen, TT, comfy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 05:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10507698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zorotokon/pseuds/zorotokon
Summary: Marty and Ozzy have been friends since… Well, since forever, really. To the pack, the friendship between the two is a rare constant in their chaotic lives. Marty and Ozzy are BFFs, that’s just how it is. Of course, that wasn’t how it always was. Marty has been part of the pack since there’s been a pack. As for Ozzy, well, everyone just has to accept Ozzy if they want Al to stop standing menacingly behind them all the time. How did they meet though? Well, it was quite some time ago, but Zootopia is filled with lost souls, and sometimes, they find each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Thematic Thursday "Can I stay at your place?"

**Several Years before the Name Cormo was ever even uttered on Pack Street**

A stoat walked back to his apartment, pulling an ancient red wagon loaded down with protein bars, fresh fruit, and water bottles. Nestled in the center, hidden by a purple tablecloth, was a tin can labeled “Library Donations.” It was depressingly empty, save for a dozen dollars and a couple pockets of change.

 _Okay, so the gym partnership wasn’t all that we’d been promised_ , thought Marty as he waited to cross the street, _the demographics are just too off. Big meathead guys aren’t known to be great readers, or great philanthropists. Most of them were just there to get big enough to pick up cute girls anyway. Though, if we had one of those behind the table they’d be more inclined._ Of course, if Marty knew any cute girls he wouldn’t be sending them to the gym to gather donations.

He was in a foul mood, but that was normal for the stoat. His base emotion could be best described as undirected fury, and his base expression fell very firmly under resting bitch face. The things he did love in his life, books, his friends, and grape soda, were all that could break him out of his funk. He didn’t have any new books waiting for him at home, Al was working to sunup, and he had drunk his last can for breakfast hours ago. Looks like it was time for his old fallback, getting into a shouting match with the first animal dumb enough to try to talk to him.

On the next corner was a hyena panhandling. He was strumming his guitar to whatever beat drove his addled mind. He looked like the 'after' picture in an anti-crack social good advert.

“And Sonny Liston rubbed some tiger balm into his glove,” the mammal almost whispered the lines out, playing to no one but himself. “Some things you do for money and some you do for love, love, love.”

Marty had to pass him to get home. The stoat gritted his teeth and drug the wagon over the curb and towards the singer. A hint of guilt worked its way into Marty’s mind as he maneuvered around the Styrofoam cup the hyena had set out for donations. Unfortunately, Marty had exactly twelve dollars and 56 cents in his donation tin, and that was money the library needed to stay open, even if it was only for another day.

He turned his head away as he passed. Best just to ignore him, and hope he returns the favor.

“What’cha got there, tube dude?”

The fur on the back of Marty’s neck rose instantly at the remark. “I’m a cub scout, would you like to buy some cookies, mister?” He shot back in a mocking falsetto.

The hyena gave a bark of laughter and strummed his guitar, crooning out the next lines of the song instead of replying.

“Raskolnikov felt sick, but he couldn’t say why, when he saw his face reflected in his victim's twinkling eye.”

Now it was Marty’s turn to snap out a laugh. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy to reference Bullshevik literature.”

“That’s just how the song goes, man,” the hyena said, a smile playing at his lips. Then he shrugged and plucked out a couple chords, searching for where the tune went next. From afar, the guitar and owner looked like they’d been on the losing end of several fights with the street. Up close, Marty could see that the pair hadn’t had a good night’s sleep, meal, wash, or replacement string in what must have been years. The hyena scratched at his neck, and an ancient robin’s egg blue medical bracelet slipped down his skinny arm.

“You know anything by the Arctic Monkeys?” Marty asked. Like most homeless musicians, he seemed chill enough.

“’I Wanna Be Yours,’ if you got a dollar on yah,” the hyena probably said that on all his first dates. Marty let his eyes wander to the hidden donation cup, then snapped them back to the emaciated animal in front of him. He had a better idea.

“How about a trade? A couple of bars for a couple of bars?”

“Ha, ha!” the hyena liked that one, but his laughter descended into a coughing fit almost instantly. The mammal covered his mouth with a paw and grabbed for a gas station cup beside him. He sucked at the straw, but only air came up.

“Here,” Marty pulled off one of the water bottles he hadn’t sold and tried to toss it at him. The hyena gulped down half the bottle in one swallow, almost choked, smacked himself in the chest, then drank the rest at a more sedate pace. Despite the slower rate, he still suckled at the bottle like it was Gaia’s teat.

“Thanks,” The animal finally said when he had swallowed every last drop. He extended a fist towards the stoat, who bumped his own into it. “Guess I owe you a song now.”

“Guess you do.”

Marty pulled the wagon into the lee of the bigger animal, finding a comfortable spot to sit among his supplies while he listened to the hyena play. He was actually quite good, and if not for his shaking paws that tripped over the chords, or his scratchy throat that couldn’t belt even when he tried, he would have been someone you would pay to hear. When he had finished with a slow and faulting rendition of the already laid-back tune, he looked over at his new companion.

“So what’s your story, tube dude?”

Marty’s ire reflexively kicked up again, but he calmed it down before taking off the hyena’s head for calling him that twice. “Raising funds for the library. Name’s Marty.”

“Ozzy,” the hyena replied.

“Like the singer?” Marty asked.

“Who?” the hyena furrowed his brow at Marty, lost.

“Never mind.”

The hyena and the stoat turned back to the street, both retreating back into their own minds for the moment. The sun was going to come up soon, and the fatigue Marty had from the already long night would only increase as he dragged his supplies back home.

“Well, it’s been good talking with you, but-” the hyena wasn’t paying Marty a bit of attention, instead his entire body was shaking, and his face was in extreme pain, as he stared straight forward. “Dude,” Marty bumped his new friend’s knee, trying to get his attention, “Are you feeling okay?”

The hyena finally couldn’t contain it anymore, and started wailing at the top of his lungs. “Ah ha ha ha! I can’t believe you actually thought I was being serious!”

“Serious about- oh.” The hyena’s laugh was grating, loud, and obnoxious, it was also infectious as the common cold and soon Marty joined the raucous chorus of heeing and hawing.

Across the street, an armadillo threw open her window and shouted at them. “Knock it off! Some animals are trying to sleep here!”

“Okay, okay,” Marty wiped the tears from his eyes, then jumped down to drag his wagon home. “I really do have to go now.”

“Peace, little mammal,” Ozzy strummed his guitar again and stood up. He grabbed the paper cup from in front of him, which contained about three fifty in change, a button, and a stick of gum, and started to head off the way Marty had come. The stoat jerked at the wagon handle, but it refused to budge. “You need some help with that?” Asked the hyena.

Marty shook his head, “No, the wheels sticks sometimes, just gotta put some muscle into it.” The stoat pulled at the wagon again, moving it a good centimeter before the wheels locked. “This is gonna take a while. You better head off if you want to get some sleep.”

The hyena sat back down, “Got no place to be, got nobody waiting on me, might as well wait it out here.”

“That’s nice of you,” grumbled Marty, his hackles rising slowly as the wagon fought him. He grabbed the handle from over his shoulders with both paws and pulled with all his body, inching the wagon forward one painful pavement slab at a time. His body was almost horizontal with the ground when his paws slipped and he smashed his chin. “MOTHERF-“

“Woah, woah, woah, little dude, chill, chill,” Ozzy scooped up the stoat, righting him before the mammal had a chance to react. “Where do you live?”

“Pack Street Apartments,” Marty spat, a combination of vitriol and sarcasm tainting his reply. He moved to the back of the wagon and gave it a might shove, rolling it down the street. “Take that you stupid rust bucket!” The wagon kept moving, and Marty saw that in truth, Ozzy had grabbed the handle and was pulling it down the sidewalk. “Hey, I didn’t ask you to do shit!”

“Nope,” the hyena grinned widely, “but friends don’t gotta ask friends for help.” Ozzy stopped and gestured for Marty, “now hop on Ozzy’s metro line, non-stop service to Pack Street Apartments guaranteed.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Yep, but I’m gonna anyway.”

Marty chewed on his lip for a moment, weighing the options. Ozzy could get him and the supplies home in a tenth of the time it would take him alone, and it was almost sunup, and he’d been working since eight… A ride was pretty tempting. “Fine, but this is under duress.”

“Ha, ha, whatever you say, my mammal.”

Marty climbed on and the two trundled off. Ozzy mumbled song lyrics to himself on the journey, while Marty felt vaguely like an actual cub scout being taken home by his dad after a long day of activities.

“What type of hyena are you?” Asked Marty, intruding on the steady stream of poetry from the singer's brain.

“Striped.” Replied Ozzy.

“Know any good jokes?”

“That’s speciest, man.”

“Just thought I’d ask.”

“Well, I got a couple good ones anyway…”

It turns out that Ozzy knew a lot more than just a pawful of jokes, but so did Marty. The two amused each other on the walk by shooting them back and forth. Ozzy had to bodily lift the wagon into the lobby, but the couch proved much more comfortable than a street corner for the two to continue their conversation.

“So, how about this one:” started Marty, repressing a giggle. “What did the English undergrad say to the librarian after being hit in the head with a book for the second time?”

Ozzy shrugged, still chuckling from his last quip.

“While I appreciate the inherent comedy of Thoreau here, it still hurt like the Dickens!” Ozzy exploded into laughter, with Marty smiling ear to ear at the reaction. “You’re the first one to get that one.”

“Oh, I didn’t,” Ozzy laughed, “But it sounds like it would be funny.” Marty had to laugh back at that comment. It was impossible not to.

“You’re a weirdo, Oz.”

“And who’s Oz?” Al’s rumble came across the linoleum floor like thunder, or a freight train passing in the night. The big white wolf had just arrived from work, and he stalked over to the couch, looking for an answer, or a fight. Way his night had been going, he’d be fine with either.

“Nice to meet’cha, man,” Ozzy leaned back and waved at Al.

“It’s day, clear out,” the command wasn’t a question, and Ozzy started giggling on the couch, looking back and forth between Al and Marty.

Al’s voice rose from deep in his chest, coming out as a growl. “What’s so funny, boy?”

Ozzy barked out a laugh, and got up, reaching for his guitar.

“Wait, Oz,” Marty grabbed the hyena's arm and pulled him back down to the couch, “Al, can we talk?”

“We’re talking now,” Al menaced the pair with a fierce look, “I said, tell me what you’re laughing at.”

Ozzy doubled over from his fit now, his face sinking between his knees, his entire body shaking with every high pitched yip. Al growled and went for the back of his shirt with a big claw, but Marty jumped on the hyena’s back before he got there.

“Al, we need to talk.” Marty stood defiant. “In private, now.”

Al stared down at the little stoat, then beckoned him outside.

“Marty, I want him out,” Al started.

“And I want him in.” Marty, even when standing straight up, barely came up to Al’s knee. “Remember Jackson?”

Al checked their surroundings for pedestrians, then acknowledged the question with a nod. “Why are you bringing that low life up now?”

“Because I told you not to trust Jackson, and you did, and…” Marty prompted, not going on until Al spoke.

“And he almost burnt down the building trying to make crack in his room.” Al finished.

“That’s right, and when I said I had good feeling about Betty next door, so you talked to her, and…”

“And she’s part of the pack now. What’s your point, Marty?”

“My point,” Marty deflated a little, softening the hard edge his voice took when he was lecturing someone, “is that Ozzy’s one of the good ones.” Al didn’t break eye contact while he took a seat on the stoop next to their apartment, where the black wolf they had only recently inducted liked to smoke. “Remember what you told me when we started this thing?”

“It’s to help animals,” Al mumbled, seeing where this was going, and not liking it one bit.

Marty punched Al’s calf, the only part of him he could reach without climbing onto the bigger animal. “So let’s help out some animals. Trust me on this one. I’ve got the spare bedroom, and he’ll just be the night.”

Al rubbed his face in his hands, trying to work the tired out so he could think straight. “Alright, fine. One night.” He held up a single claw in emphasis as he stood, pushing the door open for both the mammals.

Ozzy had recovered from his fit, and was standing by the couch, his guitar hidden behind his back. “I can just go, heh, heh.” He didn’t catch either of their eyes as he moved to pass them.

“No way,” Marty jumped in front of the hyena, not really blocking his path as much as just stepping into it. “Your choices are sleeping on the couch in here, or sleeping with me.”

Al suppressed a snort, shook his head, and went up to his room, his duty done.

“Hey, man,” Ozzy interrupted himself with a cough into his arm, although it sounded suspiciously like he was also quashing a laugh. “That’s real nice of you, but we just met, and-“

“And I need someone to carry my wagon into my room, so make your choice now, or you’re going to have to watch me try to drag that thing up a flight of stairs for the next six hours.”

Ozzy hesitated before picking up the wagon. “I guess I’m staying at your place then,”

Marty nodded, and began his climb up the stairs next to his new friend. “Yes, you are.”

 

**Several Months Later**

V looked at the apartment Ozzy had pointed out. It was one building inspector away from being condemned, one spark from being a bonfire, and one good rain from being covered in black mold. The neighborhood was rough, the job prospects were questionable, and the nearest emergency care was thirty minutes away.

“Ozzy, I don’t think this is really the most appropriate living space for you.” She tapped her clipboard and watched her charge approach the door. “I’m sure we could find you someplace with better accommodations that fit the plan that we’ve drawn up.” He didn't respond, so she went for a different approach, “This is really for your own good.”

Ozzy shook his head at V, then waved to a smoking wolf, who waved back and disappeared into the building. “Nah, this is the place, V.” He said, “Don’t want to be a burden on the tax payer’s backs, you know. Cheap and easy to find, and across from a bus stop, so that’s my transportation covered.”

V was not sold. “While I’m sure your choice would be appreciated by the budgeting office, I am really not sure if you would thrive in this sort of environment.” She didn’t say drug den, but the implication was clear to them both. Ozzy had a problem, and V was here to help him fix it. Nine tenths of fixing problems like Ozzy had were making sure he was surrounded by helpers, not pushers.

“I know, I know, but,” The door opened and the wolf reemerged, flanked by a pair of identical aardwolves, as well as a comparably tiny stoat leading them. “All my friends are already here.”


End file.
